


my past and my future so near

by vampyrekat



Series: Lavender Fields [1]
Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Do not be shocked when problematic themes happen, F/M, Lavender Fields verse, This is PROBLEMATIC if you're not okay with that then this is your chance to abandon ship, This is just the jumping off point for it, takes place at the ballet if that is of any interest to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 00:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15594714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampyrekat/pseuds/vampyrekat
Summary: “Are you planning to shoot me?”“I have orders to shoot the Grand Duchess Anastasia.”“I didn’t ask about her, did I? What are you supposed to do about the impostor?”The best laid plans of men often go awry.





	my past and my future so near

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, I'm building off my own, _Crossing the Nevsky Prospekt_ take on canon, so if you haven't read that, there may be a few details that seem out of place. Nothing should be too jarring, though.

Anya paced the length of the lobby, nerves winning out over the urge to stay in the box where Dmitry could help her review and prepare to meet the Dowager Empress. She had come so far, and to have her grandmother - her grandmother! - so near, when she still had an hour to wait, was cruel. Ten years of waiting, and the last hour was agony; how had she survived this long? Her sleepless night was catching up with her, and no amount of beautiful ballet could calm the butterflies trying to break free of her stomach.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Chin up, shoulders back, like when she'd walked the Yusupov Theater with a book on her head to fix her posture, and it soothed her. She would go back to the box and spend the rest of intermission reviewing their plan to approach the Dowager Empress. She and Dmitry would joke, in their too-nervous way, and they would get through this. _She_ would get through this, just like she'd gotten through everything that had come before, and she only vaguely noticed the usher watching her with almost-concern. It wasn't shocking, when she was wearing a hole in the carpet and fiddling with her bracelet.

“May I help you find your seat, madame?”

She _had_ wandered too far from the box she shared with Vlad and Dmitry, hadn't she? She was lost in the theater, and she had no idea how much of intermission was left. Anya nodded tiredly and held out her ticket, her mind a million miles away, until he took it and she looked up to meet a too-familiar gaze.

“Gleb,” she said, and it sounded like she'd been hit in the stomach. He had found a usher’s uniform, somewhere, and it didn't matter where but it did, because Anya was flooded with adrenaline and all the details were too sharp, too immediate. He looked so pleasant, as though they were just chatting on the street again, and he was smiling.

He'd always worn his advantage casually.

“Dmitry will come looking for me,” she said suddenly, the silence choking her, “or Vlad. They will notice I’m missing.”

“Not for another ten minutes, Anya.” He said her name fondly, and she recalled how - a lifetime ago - he had commented how strong and beautiful it was. It had, at the time, been a compliment. “I want to talk.”

“Aren’t you worried about being seen with me?” She regretted the question instantly. If he lead her away from the public, she would be shot; Anya had no illusions about what would bring a Chekist officer to Paris. He laughed softly and shook his head, still holding her ticket, which meant - Anya felt like ice was tracing down her spine - he would know where to find her, and Vlad and Dmitry to boot. Of course.

" _If_  you mentioned our talk to the conmen," he said, and she _hadn't_ mentioned it, because they had fled the country that night and it hadn't seemed important and Gleb was looking at her ticket so casually, as though he had guessed all of this already. Anya wanted to scream when he smiled and continued smoothly, "I doubt you were specific enough for them to recognize me. Especially here.” He looked up at her with a wry smile. “ _Madame_ Anderson, is it? Please follow me.”

He gestured and she fell into step next to him, their steps taking them ever-so-slowly back to her box. Plenty of time for them to talk, or for her to become another nameless, unimportant victim. Anya knew how the police worked in Russia, and couldn't assume the change in scenery would change the man next to her much, especially as they left the more populated parts of the theater and paced down a corridor that looked disused. Someone might hear her, if she screamed, but Anya wasn't sure of even that much.

“You’re here to see the dowager empress,” he said conversationally, and held up a hand before she could deny it. “I’m here to kill Anastasia.”

She'd been naive, to think she was out of danger just because they'd reached Paris.

“I thought Anastasia was dead," Anya said, and was proud that her voice didn't shake.

“She is.” Gleb stopped, safely away from anyone who might question them, and gave her a curious look. “You want to bring her back to life.”

“I want to be myself.”

“So you keep saying.” He cocked his head to the side and gave her a charming smile. “I let you go with a warning in Russia, and I let you walk away last time. I won’t be so stupid again.” He held out a hand and she took it without thought, because they had danced at the Neva Club only a few days before. This time he pulled her close, as though they were dancing, and she could smell the starch on his stolen collar when he guided her hand to just above his waist.

Anya felt the sharp outline of a gun through his jacket, and shivered, her voice low. “You’d kill me?”

“If you force me to.” He hadn’t let go of her wrist, and Anya was acutely aware that they were too close, that his eyes were flitting nervously over her face, looking for something. She couldn't guess what, but he didn't seem to find it; his breath escaped in a sigh, and he wet his lips nervously. “I don’t want you dead, Anya.”

“I don't care about myself.” She looked up at him, trying to seem as royal and uncaring as she could. If he didn't want her dead, then she had some small advantage. “If you want to stop me, you’ll have to kill me.”

“I will," he warned, but Anya could see the flicker of doubt in his eye. He hadn't shot her when he'd nearly caught her on the train, and he hadn't hurt her at the Neva Club, and he hadn't arrested her in Leningrad. If he wanted her dead or imprisoned, he'd had ample opportunity.

“You’re lying," she said, as though it was a simple fact. They were still kissing-close, and Anya smiled up at him sweetly. “You could’ve killed me already.”

“Perhaps you _would_ rather die.” He seemed shocked at the idea, almost discomforted, but recovered with a pleasant smile in a heartbeat. “Would you say the same for your conmen?”

\- her companions who were alone in the box, in the seats next to and behind hers. Gleb still held her ticket; it wouldn't take him long to find it. Anya forced herself to breathe evenly and smile at him. “They've always known what the stakes were, even before I did.”

He hummed in not-quite-agreement, his eyes still intent on hers. “And the dowager empress? Does she know?”

 _Nana_ , her heart cried, and Anya jolted slightly in his grip. She'd only just seem the woman for the first time in - so very, very long, longer even than the ten years of missing memories. Anya couldn't lose her again, but she had hesitated too long, because Gleb's eyes lit up. Anya wanted to cry. Her dedication to her family was going to give her away, just like the last time, when she hadn't wanted to take any escape route if her sisters couldn't come with her, if it meant leaving her family behind - better to die with them than without them, but she wouldn't be shot with her family, not this time.

She took a deep breath.

"She's not involved," she said, and her voice only shook a little.

“She’s more involved than anyone else," Gleb said, low and victorious, and Anya's gaze focused on his again. “Maria Feodorovna," and he infused the words with venom, "is the only one who can name you Anastasia.”

Anya had seen a street cat get its throat ripped out by a dog, once. The spray of blood stuck in her mind even when everything else faded to a white haze and she had fallen to the ground, pressing a rough sleeve to her mouth to muffle her cry. She could feel Gleb holding her wrist, distantly, but could hardly hear him over the crash of her heartbeat in her ears. After the blood spray, while Anya was catching her breath, the dog had carried the cat’s body away, and Anya hadn’t wanted to consider why.

She wondered if her body would be taken back to Leningrad.

“Kill me, then," she whispered. "She doesn’t deserve to die.”

“She’s a Romanov. They all should have died long ago.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and lingered at her jaw, his fingertips not quite touching her skin, and Anya shuddered.

“I don't want to be a Romanov, Gleb." She had never wanted to be  _royalty_. She had only ever wanted to find her family, and he - she looked up at him, eyes wide. "You know that."

“You want to live, more than anything.” He took a step back, and Anya’s fingers clutched at his jacket reflexively; if he moved away, he could escape, he could attack her -- better to pretend this was a familiar meeting, that they were friendly here. She could pretend he hadn’t noticed, except that his breath caught and his eyes darkened, and his hand moved to steady her elbow when she swayed. “I could tell you were a survivor from the start.”

Everyone seemed to know who Anya was, except Anya herself.

“And you?” She stared at him evenly, and wondered if it mattered. “What do you want?”

“I want -” He smiled wryly. “I want you to give up this foolish dream, and let Anastasia stay dead.”

“That’s not all,” she accused, and his jaw tightened. He pulled her hands from his coat, and she let them fall limply in front of her as he stepped away. She tugged at her gloves after a moment, trying to put them to rights. As though it mattered.

“Revolution isn’t about want.” He tugged his jacket back into place, and his gaze was too intent on hers. Anya wondered again how the cat had felt, before it was torn apart, and kept her gaze on her gloves as he continued, “They might get you in to see the empress. If you somehow convince her, then I won’t have a choice. Do you understand?”

A splash of blood against the white - snow, coat, whatever it was - and it would be over. Anya pressed her eyes closed for a long moment, and surrendered.

“I never wanted to be a princess,” she said at last, opening her eyes to glare at Gleb. His expression was frighteningly neutral.

“Your choice, Anya?”

She smiled helplessly. “Tell me what to do.”

He grinned victoriously, and brushed his knuckles over her cheek again. “I knew you were a survivor.” There was a note of pride that she didn't like but it didn't matter, and he and slid an arm around her waist, holding her next to him, making sure she couldn’t compose herself. “Walk with me,” he coaxed, ordered, and Anya went without protest.

It was easy enough to take direction, easy enough to memorize the few words and phrases Gleb laid out for her and sit through the final act of the ballet. It was _easy_  to let someone else make her choices, and not so very different from Dmitry and Vlad’s lessons. It was simple to tell the Dowager Empress that she had been taken in, and that they should _both_ forsake this search for Anastasia before it got someone hurt, and the look of betrayal in the old woman's eyes only made Anya's heart ache. She could survive far worse than heartache, although when the woman stood to speak Anya turned on her heel and fled.

It was even easier to reprimand Dmitry, to remind him that he had gladly used her. She had never been more than a tool to him or Vlad, a doll to be dressed and made to speak and hopefully to win them money. It was dangerously easy to let the words flow from her mouth, to tell Dmitry that she hated him before she stalked off to find some peace and freedom. It wasn't a  _lie_ , was it, when she reminded him that they had used her. It just wasn't the entire truth. She doubted Dmitry could honestly tell the difference, and hated herself for thinking it. 

She strode from the Théâtre Sarah-Bernhardt still shrugging into her reclaimed coat. It was unseasonably cold and the coat was fashionably thin, but she fought down the shivering. She had reached Paris, and she was adrift. She had nothing, not even her tattered dreams left to comfort her, even as she was more sure than ever that she was Anastasia.

Maybe that answered it. It was worse to have known and lost than to never have known at all.

A hand touched her shoulder lightly and Anya whirled, ready to reprimand Dmitry for following her, and found Gleb watching her instead.

“A lovely performance,” he commented lightly.

“Swan Lake always is,” she shot back, setting off towards her hotel. If she was to vanish, she would do it properly, with her clothes and her own things instead of the borrowed finery. She wouldn't want them to find her by the borrowed, fake jewelry. She wouldn't want them to find her at all.

“Not the ballet,” Gleb corrected, falling into step next to her, and Anya let him. “You’re a good liar, comrade. You nearly fooled me. The part where you told her - what was it - you only want to protect other girls from the men’s manipulation, wasn’t it?” He smiled, eyes fond. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

“You’re in love with the sound of your own words,” Anya accused flatly, “especially when I’m the one saying them.” Gleb’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Anya smiled as sickly-sweet as she could. After so many months of lessons, it wasn't difficult. “You were too quick to judge Dmitry and Vlad for that, _comrade_.”

Gleb actually laughed, his gaze warm, as though it was a joke they could agree on, as though she hadn't commented on _his_ shortcomings. "Perhaps I was," he agreed, and slid an arm around her waist like a vice. "Our train leaves in an hour, _comrade._ ”

He tugged her into walking with him, and Anya barely registered the motion of her own feet, her brain turning over the word  _our_. He'd told her he didn't want her to go to Leningrad with him; he'd agreed that they might shot him if he went without her. Which left -- “Where are we going?”

Gleb choked out a laugh, glancing down at her. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t,” Anya agreed bitterly, and stopped walking until he was forced to stop, to turn and face her while she examined his expression. If he wanted her dead, he had gone to an awful lot of trouble, but perhaps he had only wanted to ensure the dowager empress gave up the hope of Anastasia before killing the impersonator. Perhaps he was going to do away with her, after everything. She laughed, a nearly hysterical sound. “Are you planning to shoot me?”

He narrowed his eyes, watching her cautiously, and let go of her entirely, a hand drifting to his pocket as though he was worried she had taken something. She watched him patiently, and he pulled himself together to smile at her.

“I have orders to shoot the Grand Duchess Anastasia,” he almost-agreed, but there was a softness to his eyes. _I don’t want you dead_ , he had said, which meant he was bluffing now. Anya laughed and shook her head, stepping closer and peering up at him with as regal of a gaze as she could muster.

“The Grand Duchess Anastasia," she agreed, and she didn’t miss the flash in his eyes, the way he shifted on his feet, the _hope_  in his posture. She flashed him another smile, all teeth. “I didn’t ask about her, did I?" She took another step forward, into his space, and Gleb almost took a step back. Anya could take pleasure in that small triumph. "What are you supposed to do about the impostor?”

He hesitated, swallowed against the tension that seemed to be everywhere, the fact that Anya could stare him dead in the eyes after he had taken her from the ballet and her companions. She would not back down, this time, and he finally broke.

“No orders,” he informed her, and tried to mirror her sharp smile, “that I care to follow.”

So he _had_ been sent to kill her, Anastasia or not. It was safety of the most precarious sort, to be at his mercy when he had orders to see her dead. At any moment he could dump her in the Seine instead of the Neva and go home to be praised for it. He had every reason to kill her and walk away, and he hadn’t -- yet.

As always, the uncertain future hung over them both, and Anya tried to search out some meaning in his gaze and found too much to cope with.

“What are you _doing?_ ” The words were drawn from her unwillingly; she bit her lip the moment they slipped free. Gleb raised an eyebrow, and she cut across before he could speak, gesturing between the two of them. “I’m not a princess; you’re not going to shoot me. We could part ways here. So why are you doing this?”

His eyes flickered over her, taking in the dress, the jewels glittering at her throat, the way she held herself - and he seemed to hesitate, halfway into a word. Anya, by now used to being examined like a horse at auction, raised an eyebrow and waited to see if he would give her the truth. She was used to not getting it, by now, but Gleb had always surprised her.

“I can’t take your word that you have no interest in the scheme,” he said finally, and she breathed again when he continued, “and if Anastasia does resurface, we’ll both be shot.” He waited a moment, but Anya didn’t dignify that with a response, merely waited for him to finish the thought. He shrugged helplessly. “You did a very good job with the Dowager Empress; I doubt she’ll continue the search. That leaves you, a loose end, and travel is the easiest way to vanish.”

“Not back to Leningrad,” she hissed, and hated how relieved she felt when he shook his head subtly. The adrenaline was leaving her, and if she was no longer in danger, her mostly-sleepless night was going to catch up.

“Not back to Leningrad,” Gleb agreed, and after a long moment, offered her his arm. Anya stared at him in disbelief for too long - how could he offer, as though they were friends, as though she wasn't being dragged from everything she had fought for - before linking her arm through his. It didn't matter, she reflected, and let him tug her into walking. She was so tired, and so used to being ordered around. Gleb watched her curiously, some of the tension gone from his frame, and added softly, “I thought the French countryside might benefit us both.”

“ _Both_.” Anya snorted. She was exhausted, and there was no point to escaping now, with the bridge to the empress so thoroughly burned for the time being. There was no point to any of it, except perhaps to getting a rise from her captor. “ _Your_ destination, _your_ tickets, _your_ company - I will be a prisoner without a cell.”

“You will be alive,” he corrected, a warning in so many words, “and you will be safe.”

He was still looking at her as though he cared, and Anya felt a hysterical laugh threaten to escape. “Don’t act like this is mercy.” Anya tilted her chin up, the way the empress had just done to her, dismissive and derogatory all at once. “We’re beyond those lies.”

“We are," he agreed, glancing at the road and moving to hail a cab, his arm still firmly linked with hers. Anya watched him, and wondered how she had ever ignored him as a threat. "We will get your things,” he said firmly, turning to her with a tense smile, “and we will go.”

Anya could hear ‘we’ ring hollow, but she nodded anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've been around my tumblr, you've probably seen that asmenuke and I are working on a collaborative AU, and we figured it was time to give it a more permanent home. This isn't going to be particularly well-organized, but at least you'll be able to see that it's all together.  
> As ever, follow my tumblr for more updates and writing snippets at [vampyrekatwrites](http://vampyrekatwrites.tumblr.com/). If you want to see my more general fandom side, my Anastasia blog is at [nanasalt](http://nanasalt.tumblr.com/). Feel free to PM me or send asks! The interaction is what keeps me writing.


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